Shadows in the Twilight

by Henning Mankell

  She grabs hold of him. Gives him a good shaking. Curious onlookers gather round. Form a circle round them. A car that can't get past sounds its horn angrily.

  'What are you talking about?' she bellows again.

  'It was me who wrote those letters,' yells Joel.

  She eyes him up and down. The penny drops.

  Then she boxes his ears. His hat and glasses fall off and dance around on the cobblestones. She hits Joel so hard that his head is buzzing. He almost falls over. As if through a fog, he sees Gertrud running away. Her coat is fluttering like a bird with a broken wing. All around him people are laughing and giggling.

  'What's going on here?' somebody asks.

  'Noseless Gertrud has been fighting,' somebody answers.

  Joel wishes there was a manhole cover in front of his feet. So that he could lift it up and disappear into the Underworld. Perhaps there is a passage down there that leads to the sea? Or a tunnel that runs to where Mummy Jenny is?

  He picks up the hat and glasses, and runs away.

  Behind him, he can hear people laughing.

  Gertrud has vanished.

  His cheeks are burning. Now I'm on fire, Joel thinks. That dream has come true. I've started to burn. Before long there'll be flames coming from my cheeks.

  He keeps on running all the way home. When he gets there he feels as if he were going to be sick.

  Life has suddenly become so hard.

  There are too many questions.

  Maybe that's what distinguishes children from grown-ups, he thinks.

  Understanding that there are so many questions that don't have answers?

  He trudges slowly up the stairs.

  All the time, in his mind's eye, he can see Gertrud in front of him.

  Her coat flapping like the broken wing of a bird.

  You can get lost inside yourself, Joel thought.

  You don't have to go into the forest in order to get lost.

  You have Day and Night inside yourself. And when twilight falls inside you, the shadows become so long . . .

  11

  Joel couldn't hide his misery.

  Needless to say, Samuel realised immediately that there was something wrong.

  That was also the fault of Eklund and the Ljusdal bus. Before the accident, Samuel had been like all other grown-ups. Easily fooled. If Joel didn't want to tell his dad that he wasn't feeling very well, or that he hadn't been to school, Samuel never noticed a thing. And as he didn't notice anything, he didn't ask any questions. But that was before the accident. Now Samuel seemed to look at Joel in a different way. Not a day went by without Samuel asking Joel how he was. It had become more difficult to fool Samuel.

  Joel was awake when Samuel got back home. It was turned midnight.

  'Are you still awake?' Samuel asked. 'Why aren't you asleep?'

  'I don't know,' said Joel. 'But I'm going to put the light out now.'

  'I can tell you that dancing was great fun,' said Samuel. 'That was a terrific idea you came up with.'

  Samuel switched off the light and left. Joel had a bit of a stomachache. His face no longer hurt from the slap Gertrud had given him. The pain had crept down into his stomach. But it wasn't the usual stomachache. It felt as if there were fingers inside there, scratching him.

  Joel had felt the same kind of pain once before. It was when he thought Samuel had abandoned him, and vanished in the same way as his Mummy Jenny. On that occasion, Joel had thrown a stone through Sara's window.

  If only he could have told Samuel what had happened! The whole complicated story that had begun when Joel had been careless and fallen under the Ljusdal bus. The good deed he'd tried to carry out; but everything had gone wrong.

  But he couldn't tell Samuel about it. His dad wouldn't understand a thing. And he might well become very angry.

  The next morning Joel woke up very early. He'd had a nightmare. When he opened his eyes in the darkness, he couldn't remember what he'd dreamt. Perhaps he'd been on fire again? He looked at the alarm clock on a stool beside his bed: a quarter past six. As it was Sunday, he didn't need to get up. He could stay in his warm bed all day if he wanted to. He could hear Samuel snoring on the other side of the dividing wall.

  There was a crunching noise in the wall next to his ear. A woodmouse was busy gnawing away at something or other. Joel tried to go back to sleep. He closed his eyes, and now he was out in the forest again. He still hadn't found that secret tree. But he knew now that it was very close by. A squirrel was sitting on a branch, looking at him. There was something odd about that squirrel. And then Joel realised that it was in fact a monkey. . .

  He opened his eyes again. He couldn't concentrate on looking for that secret tree. All of a sudden Gertrud appeared, in the middle of his story, and gave him a box on the ear.

  Joel got up and dressed. Then he went to the kitchen and drank a glass of milk. It would soon start getting light. Then he could go out. He enjoyed cycling around town on a Sunday morning. There was never anybody about. He could imagine that he was the only individual still alive. He was the ruler of the Waste Land . . .

  It was chilly outside. The saddle was wet. He could hear Simon Windstorm's lorry in the distance. So it's started again, he thought. Simon can't get to sleep at night. The sound of the lorry annoyed Joel. He didn't want to see Simon Windstorm just now. He wanted to be left in peace.

  He wondered why it was so easy to think when he was on his bike. What did the wheels have to do with his head? Were they a sort of dynamo that set his thoughts in motion?

  He hissed at himself.

  Why did he have so many silly thoughts? Had he inherited that from his mother, Jenny? If so, perhaps it was just as well that she had run away?

  He stopped outside the bar and dismounted. The 'Closed' notice was displayed. The bar didn't open until one o'clock on a Sunday. But the beery locals used to gather outside at about twelve. They often had bottles of the hard stuff in their inside pockets that they used to share before Ludde removed the 'Closed' notice and unlocked the door.

  Maybe it would have been better if a Miracle hadn't happened, he thought dejectedly. Then at least I wouldn't have been slapped by Gertrud.

  He remounted his bike and started pedalling as fast as he could. He was being chased by a terrifying gang of murderers. He could feel them panting on the back of his neck. Faster! He had to go faster, faster. . .

  He had a puncture outside the post office. There was a swishing noise, and his front tyre went flat. When he examined the wheel, he saw that a nail had got stuck in the tyre. A big, rusty nail.

  I'll get rid of this damned bike, he thought. He was furious.

  I'll wheel it as far as the bridge and throw it into the river.

  Then he heard somebody shouting. He looked round. There was nobody there. Then there came another shout. Somebody was waving to him from an upstairs window over the post office. That was where the Swedish Telegraph Office was. Joel could see that it was Asta. Asta Bagge was the local manager for Swedish Telegraph. Was she shouting at him? He wheeled his bike over the street. Asta had fiery red hair, and was so thin you had to suspect that she ran herself through the mangle every morning after getting up. Joel didn't know anybody as flat as Asta Bagge.

  'Can you do me a favour?' she shouted to him.

  'Of course,' Joel said.

  'Go round to the back,' Asta shouted. 'And up the stairs. The door's not locked.'

  Joel leaned his bike against the wall and went round the corner. He'd never been in the Telegraph premises before. When he opened the door and went in, Asta was sitting in front of the big telephone exchange, and connecting a long-distance call.

  'Go ahead, Karlskrona,' she said into the microphone hanging in front of her face. Then she flicked a little black switch, and stood up.

  'It's a good job I saw you,' she said. 'What's your name?'

  'Joel Gustafson,' said Joel.

  'Now you can do me a favour,' said Asta. 'I'll give you a little reward for yo
ur trouble. Do you know where I live?'

  'No,' said Joel.

  'There's a house behind the bakery,' said Asta. 'A red one.'

  Joel knew the one she was talking about.

  'I think I forgot to switch off the cooker when I came to work,' said Asta. 'Take these keys and hurry over to my flat and check for me, please. Don't forget to lock up again when you leave.'

  Joel hurried off. Now he was the only one who could stop the raging prairie fire from spreading to the pioneers' camp. They would lose everything if he didn't get there in time . . .

  He unlocked the door and went into Asta's flat. There was a smell of perfume. Perfume and honey. He wiped his feet and looked round for the kitchen. He noticed the corner of a draining board through a door standing ajar. He opened the door wide. The cooker certainly was on. One of the hotplates was red hot. He switched it off. Then he explored the little flat. There was a smell of perfume everywhere. Joel imagined that he was a burglar. He was looking for money that was hidden somewhere, but he didn't know where. And jewellery. He avoided touching anything, so as not to leave any fingerprints. A row of photographs in brown frames was lined up on a bureau. Children stared at him, wide-eyed. An old man was sitting on a bench by a house wall. A poodle was wagging its tail. Joel opened the door to Asta's bedroom. The bed was unmade. The smell of perfume was even stronger inside there.

  There was something odd about the flat, but Joel couldn't put his finger on it. He looked round. Now he was the detective, searching for clues that the burglar had left behind. He suspected the culprit might be the notorious Joel Gustafson. The master thief who had never been caught.

  Then he realised what was odd about the flat. There was no telephone. Asta was in charge of the Telegraph Office, but she didn't have a telephone of her own! It was a mystery. He went through the rooms one more time. The hotplate was no longer red. There was no sign of a telephone anywhere.

  He took another look at the photograph of the poodle. Then he left, locking the door carefully behind him.

  He checked three times, to make sure.

  When he got back to the Telegraph Office, Asta was sitting at the switchboard knitting. The earphones were hanging round her neck.

  'The cooker was on, in fact,' Joel said.

  'How awful!' said Asta. 'That's never happened before. The place could have burnt down.'

  She opened her purse and took out two one-krona coins. Two kronor just for switching off a cooker? Joel bowed politely when she gave him the money. Perhaps that was a job he could have when he grew up? A cooker turner-offer? If he got two kronor every time, he'd soon be so rich that he'd be able to buy the Pontiac in Krage's showroom.

  Joel stared curiously at the big telephone exchange. Somebody rang again, and Asta connected the call. He asked and she explained how it worked. Joel soon thought he'd be able to connect calls himself.

  Things quietened down again, and Asta took off the earphones.

  'Is the exchange open at night as well?' Joel asked.

  'It's always open,' said Asta. 'I'll have the night shift next week. There are three of us who take it in turns. We have a bed in the back room over there where we can sleep. But somebody always has to be here in case a call comes through. It could be an emergency. Somebody might be ill. Somebody might be about to give birth and need a taxi.'

  There was another ring. Asta answered, and connected the caller to the number requested. Then came three more calls at the same time. Asta connected them. Somebody wanted to speak to Stockholm. Asta connected. And connected. And connected.

  Joel saw a local telephone directory lying on a table. He leafed through it. He came to the letter 'L'. Then he saw the name Lundberg, David. Telephone number 135.

  The Caviar Man had a telephone!

  Joel dropped the directory as if it had burnt his fingers.

  Asta hadn't noticed anything. 'You're through to Stockholm,' she said into the microphone.

  'Do many people ring during the night?' Joel asked when she had removed the headphones again.

  'Hardly anybody rings after midnight,' she said, picking up her knitting again. Joel could see that it was going to be a child's jumper.

  'I'd better be going now,' said Joel.

  'Thank you for your help,' said Asta. Then it rang again.

  Joel wheeled his bike home. He had a repair kit in the cellar, and would be able to mend the tyre. But it wasn't the bicycle he was thinking about as he walked. The Caviar Man had a telephone! That damned numbskull who had spied on Gertrud and then cursed and sneaked away. Slunk away like a cowardly dog.

  Joel had decided that it was all the Caviar Man's fault.

  He stopped dead.

  He would get his revenge on the Caviar Man. That would be the good deed he would do so that he needn't worry about the Miracle any more. He would get his revenge on the Caviar Man for having spied on Gertrud and sworn at her. It would be a good deed – nobody would know that Joel had done it. But perhaps that didn't matter? Surely the main thing was that the good deed had been carried out? Surely a good deed could be as invisible as God? After all, everybody talked about God, but nobody had seen him, had they?

  Joel started walking again.

  He was thinking about Asta and her telephone exchange.

  By the time he got home and opened the gate, he'd made up his mind. He knew now how he was going to get his revenge on the Caviar Man. Then Gertrud would understand that he had meant well when he wrote those secret letters. Everything would return to normal.

  Two days later, on Tuesday, Samuel went away. He was going elk-hunting and would be away for two days and nights. He had suggested that Joel should live at Sara's place while he was away, but Joel had objected. He could look after himself. Samuel had eventually given way. Joel had promised to have dinner with Sara those two evenings.

  'But what will you do if you have nightmares?' Samuel had asked.

  'Then I'll go round to Sara's,' said Joel.

  'You're a clever lad,' he said. 'I've never really thought about it before, but the fact is, you can manage on your own as well as a grown-up.'

  Joel felt proud.

  As well as a grown-up, Samuel had said.

  Perhaps that's what happens when you're forced to be your own mother?

  On Tuesday afternoon Samuel came home from the forest earlier than usual. He'd already packed his rucksack that morning. The big rifle was lying in its case on the kitchen bench. It seemed to Joel that Samuel was acting like a child on Christmas Eve. Could it really be that much fun, standing in the freezing cold forest and hoping that an elk would come lumbering past? Samuel went elk-hunting every year. He always returned home without having shot an elk. He hadn't even seen one. It was always somebody else in the hunting party who'd shot the beast.

  A horn sounded in the street below.

  'Are you sure you'll be able to manage?' Samuel asked.

  'Of course,' said Joel. 'Off you go now! Go and shoot an elk!'

  When he reached the street Samuel turned round and waved to Joel, who was standing in the window. Then he clambered into the waiting car, and they set off.

  Joel had thought out his plan in detail. He'd packed a rucksack and hidden it under his bed. When it was time to go to Sara's, he put on his boots and jacket, and set off. It had become a bit warmer. But it was drizzling.